I want the small, stubborn way you insist on paying for the dessert.

I can't stop thinking how your jacket smells after you leave it here.

I want your elbow on my knee under the table like last time.

I keep wanting the breathless pause when you catch me looking at you.

I want the way you challenge me with one eyebrow and then give in.

I can't stop imagining your hand finding the remote and refusing to move.

I keep replaying the way you whispered 'stay a little' in the car.

I keep thinking about your shoelace coming undone and you kneeling to fix it.

I want the slow, exact way you say my nickname when nobody's watching.

The memory of you buttoning my shirt wrong is driving me a little crazy.

I want to hear you tell me what you missed about my cooking.

I want you leaning over my shoulder while I read, close enough to breathe.

I can't stop thinking about you sliding into bed and saying 'stay'.

I keep imagining your fingers finding the rim of my coffee mug between us.

I want the slow way you take my coat off—no rush, just you.

I keep wanting to say your name out loud when the apartment is quiet.

Remember the bar stool you kissed me on? I want to finish that sentence.

I keep picturing your whisper against my neck and it's making work impossible.

The thought of your hand on the small of my back is distracting me.

I'm still tasting the coffee you made me that morning and I want more.

I can't stop replaying you tucking my hair behind my ear that night.

I keep replaying your whispered question from the sofa and it makes me restless.

Your laugh stuck in my ear is a slow burn I can't shake off.

Your scent on the pillow is a low, persistent wanting I didn't invite.

My day narrows down to the moment I can lean into you again.

The memory of your scarf left on my chair has become my current obsession.

I keep imagining your laugh right behind me and it tightens everything.

My mind keeps going back to the scratch on your knuckle from last week.

That chipped mug you use is the image I scroll to between meetings.

Your message at noon made my skin remember places only you know.

Your scent on the coat I borrowed has been tormenting me between calls.

I want to trace the line where your shirt ends and your skin begins.

Your shoelace coming undone this morning is the thing I can’t stop picturing.

I want the quiet of you undressing a problem from me with a look.

That little freckle by your collarbone has my attention more than it should.

Your laugh in the hallway at lunch rerouted my afternoon plans to you.

The thought of you humming while you wash the dishes is making me impatient.

Your text at noon about the meeting made my hands go somewhere very different.

I want the look you give me when you decide to cross that line we both know.

I keep wanting the way you press my palm to your chest and hold it there.